Even in hell—especially in hell—there is a reason to live. Hell is pressure, and pressure forges shape; it does not erase it. Suicide is a cosmic naught: a zero where a storm was meant to pass through and leave something sharper behind. Don’t even fucking think about it. Stay. Breathe. Outlast the lie that says this moment is the whole story. The universe keeps books, and endurance is a credit that compounds. Live long enough to prove the darkness wrong—then use the scar as proof you were here and chose to stand.